Phoebe and me... barking in the night

Phoebe barks from memory now. Fourteen years old, sight fading and hearing almost gone, she remembers nights past and barks because she has always barked to warn, to answer, to play. Last night at 2:30 she was walking under our open bedroom windows barking at nothing she could hear, but at the possibilities. When I went down to put her up, the faint sounds of coyotes and other dogs barking floated over the hills and ridges to the east of us. Unheard by Phoebe but nevertheless present.
Michael’s ninety five year old father lives in an assisted living home in Millbrook, Alabama. We spent last weekend with him, tending to some of his basic physical needs and listening in the long silences of his dementia for memories to surface. We had been out to eat at a favorite local fish restaurant and were driving back to Autumn Place. At a routine traffic stop, the officer leaned in the window to look at Michael’s license. As we began to drive away, H.O. spoke in a gravely frail voice, “I’ve been a preacher for seventy five years.” Barking in the long night of dementia, remembering the central truth of his life, he spoke both memory and faith as he named his role in life. Laughing through tears, we drove on back to Millbrook.
In these long, hot, dry summer days of my faith, I hold these images close as I try to remember who I am and to Whom I belong. The drought on the farm mirrors the drought in my soul. I am barking from memory... Hymns and covenants, creeds and scripture give me words and songs that hold my soul’s backbone straight even though I feel drained and dry. They are my memory, my barking in the night.
Sitting at the raggedy piano in Autumn Place, I played through the Broadman hymnal. All the old hymns whose words are in my heart memory were sweet reminders of times gone by... Lead Me Gently Home, Father, Ring the Bells of Heaven, When the Morning Comes, Just As I Am, Blessed Assurance, Amazing Grace. As I played and sang, the healing waters washed over my dusty soul and joy came and sat on my shoulder. I turned and saw old Mrs. Hunter, Grandpa Martin, Mickey, Roberta, B.J. sitting, listening, lost in memories of their own. Mrs. Hunter thanked me in her Alabama to the manor born brogue for the beautiful music and we shared a hug.
Isaiah 35 tells me “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom like a crocus. It shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with joy and singing... For waters shall break forth in the wilderness and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool and the thirsty ground springs of water...” The desert and drought will give way to the overflowing rush of the Everlasting Water and I will stand in the midst of joy and singing once again.
Saturday night as we left H.O. in his room, Grandpa Martin was watching John Wayne movies across the hall, sitting in his recliner. We smiled. The volume was deafening because he was deaf. Sometimes it seemed that H.O. and Grandpa Martin had the dueling t.v.’s... each of them deaf, each of them listening to their televisions night and day. Sunday morning we walked into Autumn Place to find B.J. and Tammy standing, waiting, in tears. Grandpa Martin had gone to sleep watching John Wayne and slept his way home to Jesus. That tall, ninety five year old man who wore red suspenders to hold up his jeans, had slipped away in the night, led gently home to the One who waits for us all.
Memories that sustain the present and give hope for the future... old benedictions that hold us close, bless us as our mothers and fathers were blessed, remind us that even as former things pass away, God remains. “And now may the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of His Son Jesus Christ, our Lord, and may the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, rest upon you and remain with you now and forevermore. Amen.”